


In The Long Run

by captainpeggy



Series: All in the Gutter [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainpeggy/pseuds/captainpeggy
Summary: “I don’t think I’m going to apologize for calling you beautiful. I’m sure I’m not the first person to do it,” Gilmore said kindly. “It’s quite true.”“Iamquite dashing,” said Tary.“See? You know it too. Not very many people think they’re beautiful. It’s a damn shame.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tary watched Gilmore take another sip of tea and look out over the park in front of them. “So your problem isn’t that you disagree, then.”As promised to several people in the comments of my last Tary fic: sparkly disaster gay talks about his issues, now featuring sparklydistinguishedgay! You can read and understand this without having read the last one, but it might give a little more context if you have.





	In The Long Run

**Author's Note:**

> Set at some ambiguous point during the timeskip. I like to think Gilmore set back up and rebuilt in Emon-- not sure if it's refuted in canon or word of Mercer anywhere, so if it is, consider this canon divergent ;)

The way Tary looked at Vax changed after that. Not much, but certainly a little. Suddenly, the things Vax said carried a new weight, a new colour: perspective was funny like that. You learn one new thing about a person, and just like that your whole view of them changes, just a little bit. It was very easy to look at people like they were pencil schematics, like every angle of their face could be carefully measured, every pitch of their voice calculated and recorded. But there were three dimensions to the world and dozens to people.

They were more complicated than automatons. More complicated than characters rendered on pages of a book.

 

//

 

“Sherri?” called Vax. “Shaun?”

A mousy half-elven head topped with a set of thick spectacles emerged from behind a shelf of glowing potions, looking displeased but not entirely surprised. “Vax’ildan. I was wondering when we’d see you next. I _assume_ you’re not here looking for magical items.”

“I was more hoping to—”

“Gilmore’s out,” she snapped. “You’re welcome to wait, but he might be several hours. He’s working on that new location in Westruun: property prices have been at an all-time low since the Conclave.” The woman snapped her fingers at Tary. “Hey! Pretty-boy!”

Taryon flinched away from where he’d been captivated by a shimmering glass orb, blinking to clear the arcane swirls it left on his eyes. “Yes, my lady?”

“You touch anything, you bought it,” she said sternly. “No exceptions.”

Tary gestured to the orb. “That’s intriguing. Some kind of divinatory enchantment? How did you get around the duration restrictions? I always found divination magic very difficult to imbue with any degree of permanency.”

The woman— Taryon guessed this was the Sherri that Vax had referred to— eyed him suspiciously. “There’s no permanency. It uses temporal manipulation to create a localized cyclic effect. It loops and recasts itself every six seconds, drawing from ambient arcane energy.”

“Oh, now _that’s_ clever,” said Tary.

Sherri huffed. “It’s worth twenty-nine thousand gold, and it took over a year to enchant. Don’t get too close.”

Tary flipped open his satchel and visualized an old pet project of his, drawing out a palm-sized contraption with a tiny mechanical arm hovering over a small slate. “My work-around for that issue involved a bit of a combination of sciences.” He tapped an iridescent glass bead embedded in the side, and it began to shine with a bright blue light. “Limited arcane intelligence imbued into a mechanical system. A tiny automaton, if you will. Ask it a question.”

Sherri looked at him warily, but leaned forward and spoke clearly into the mechanism. “Will it rain today?”

Magic hummed in the intricate core of the contraption, and the arm lurched to life, scrawling an answer across the slate. _U-N-L-I-K-E-L-Y._

Sherri leaned in even closer, pushing her glasses farther up on the bridge of her nose, and narrowed her eyes at the arm as it shifted and lowered to scrub away the chalk markings on the slate. “Fascinating. You created an artificial spellcaster to divine on command? I can’t say I’d ever thought of that.”

“Few have,” said Taryon, only a little condescendingly, “and the rest of them focus either too much on the mechanical or on the arcane. It requires an equal marriage of the two to get it right.”

“May I?” Sherri took the little machine from Tary, handling it with a delicate touch, and he watched her eyes flicker in the familiar glow of an Identify spell. As the light faded, she let out a light huff that might almost have been a laugh, and the slightest smile played at her lips. “Pretty-boy, you’ve got quite the talent. Who did you study under?”

“Myself,” Tary replied brightly. “Entirely self-taught. I’ve read some excellent literature on the subject, but I’ve had no formal tutelage in the arcane.”

Sherri raised her eyebrows in surprise and looked back to Vax. “Has the impossible happened? Has Vax’ildan brought something other than inconvenience to Gilmore’s Glorious Goods?”

“Let it go, Sherri,” grumbled Vax.

She shifted her gaze back to Taryon. “Have you ever considered monetizing your work? This is an excellent enchantment, and if the rest of your designs are anywhere near this quality, you could make quite a pretty penny.”

Tary blinked. “I can’t say that I have. I’ve never really thought about... making money before.”

“Oh, a rich boy. I suppose nobody can be perfect. Well, you’ll have to support yourself someday, and we’re always looking to expand our partnerships.” She whipped a business card out of thin air and pressed it into Tary’s hand. “Think about it.”

Tary took back his contraption and slid it back into his satchel along with the card. “Thank you, Miss Sherri.”

She turned just a slightly darker shade of red. “Just Sherri’s fine.”

“Taryon Darrington,” said Tary gallantly, holding out his hand to shake. She took it with a firm grip.

“Oi,” called Vax from where he was leaning up against a shelf. “You’re not his type. Watch it with the blushing.”

Sherri reddened even more at that and shot Vax a look that could kill before pulling her hand back and marching away to one of the back rooms, letting the curtain swing shut behind her in a way that made it clear that she’d have slammed the door if there’d been one.

“She seems nice,” observed Taryon.

“Not to me,” muttered Vax, “but I probably deserve it.”

Through the curtain, Tary heard the soft hum of a spell being cast, then Sherri’s voice. It was muffled through the fabric, but he caught bits and pieces. _Vax’ildan-- no, don’t you dare, he can wait-- brought a friend-- talented, impressive really-- **don’t, Gilmore, he’s not worth it** \--_ He looked to Vax to see the half-elf’s ears pricked and clearly listening intently.

“Well, that does wonders for the self-esteem,” remarked Vax eventually. He raised his voice just a little: “Thank you, Sherri, for the ringing endorsement!”

There was no response.

They wandered the shop for a little while, killing time. Vax gravitated to one of the weapons racks, running his fingertips along the edges of blades and inspecting intricate inlays in their hilts, while Tary investigated display after display of everything from scrolls to staffs and stone sigils. More than once, he opened his mouth to call for Doty to make a note, then caught himself: he and Percival were making progress on Doty 2.0, but the automaton was still far from functional. It felt odd to be without his once-constant companion. Pike had told him he’d get used to it, but he certainly hadn’t yet.

Eventually, Sherri came back out with a tall stack of books, which she balanced nimbly on one arm to smack Vax’s hand away from the daggers with the other. Vax winced and shook out his wrist. “Ouch.”

“Don’t touch the displays and I won’t have to do it again,” she reprimanded him. “It’s that simple.”

Tary slowly slid the wand he’d been inspecting back onto the shelf as subtly as possible.

“Did you tell Shaun I’m here?” Vax asked.

“I did,” Sherri snapped, “against my better judgement. I’m sure he’ll be here within the hour, despite my explicit instructions not to come. Damn my honesty to the Hells and back.” She dropped the books on the front counter, the thud punctuating the end of her sentence.

Precisely at the instant the books hit the table, there was a sudden flash of blinding purple light through the beaded curtain behind the counter, and Tary threw his arm up to shield his eyes: beside him, Vax let out a light laugh as the light faded and a man strode through the doorway. Sherri groaned and rubbed her forehead. “You can’t keep doing this.”  
The man was on the heavy side, but he wore it well, and his intricate gold and purple robes were tailored perfectly to his bigger frame. His golden brown skin seemed almost to glow in the ambient light of the shop, and his smile was both perfect and contagious: Tary felt instantly at ease with him in the room. It was easy to see what had made Shaun Gilmore such an effective salesman over the years.

“Sherri, darling, you worry too much,” Gilmore said affectionately, kissing her on the cheek and turning to face Vax. “Vax’ildan! To what do I owe the pleasure?” He glanced at Tary. “And who’s this?”

Vax grinned. “Lovely to see you as always, Shaun. This is a... teammate of mine, Tary--”

“Taryon Darrington,” interrupted Tary magnanimously, holding out a hand to shake. Gilmore took it with a curious smile. “Adventurer, artificer, and friend to any friend of Vox Machina’s. It’s an honour.”

“Honour’s all mine, I’m sure.” Gilmore’s dark eyes twinkled with mirth.

Vax put a hand on Tary’s shoulder. “I figured the two of you might have a lot to talk about, being the engineers of the arcane that you are.”

Gilmore tilted his head to one side, glanced from Tary to Vax and back again, and Tary felt as though he’d suddenly gone from a new acquaintance to the object of an analysis. Gilmore looked back at Vax and raised an eyebrow, and the two of them seemed to have an entire conversation without saying a word.

“This is uncomfortable,” said Tary eventually.

Gilmore laughed. “Well, we can’t have that. I... I’d very much like to talk shop with you, Mister Darrington. As you so elegantly put it, any friend of Vox Machina’s is a friend of mine. How would you like to go find ourselves some afternoon tea and discuss?”

 

//

 

The streets of Emon were bustling with people from all walks of life, buzzing with chatter in any of a dozen languages and the sounds of laughter, complaints, groans, cheers: it was a sort of metropolis Tary had never really seen before. Ank’harel was close, in some ways-- the atmosphere, the noise, the way the air itself seemed to hum-- but the architecture here was different, the demographic net thrown wider, the sights and smells undeniably unique. Deastok and Zadash had shared a far more depressing aesthetic. Not that Tary didn’t appreciate the Dwendalian Empire’s industrialist architecture-- everything had its place, and everything worked well enough-- but the sheer _joy_ that seemed to emanate from Emon, that was new.

The ravages of the Conclave remained evident, but the dragons hadn’t crushed the people’s spirits. It was remarkable, really, and quite unfamiliar... How bright the world was. How bright it could be, even in the face of the darkest of times.

Gilmore seemed to know everyone and greeted most of the folks they passed by name. Everyone gave him a smile, a nod, a wave: even shopkeeps engaged in conversation with a customer would excuse themselves to say a quick hello. Part of it was the man’s charisma, that was certain, but there was... something else there, as well. A few times, people approached him gushing thanks, professing their gratitude for something-or-other, and Gilmore accepted graciously, shook their hands, and waved them off.

“What did you do for these people?” inquired Taryon after the third man tried to give Gilmore a handful of platinum (which he declined, although Tary saw him spend a split second considering it).

“I fought an ancient red dragon to save their royal family,” said Gilmore mildly, “and came very close to dying in the process.”

Tary raised his eyebrows incredulously. “You fought Thordak!?”

Gilmore smiled. “Twice. He wasn’t my first, but I hope he’ll be my last.”

“You’ve fought dragons before, then?”

“I’ve spent my time on the adventuring circuit,” admitted Gilmore. “The small-town life was never for me, but it took me a while to figure out what was. No better way to do that than see the world.”

“I can understand that,” Taryon said. “My father--”

Gilmore laughed, a deep, belly laugh. “Oh, isn’t that always it? Always the fathers. I see why Vax’ildan took a shine to you.”

The two of them rounded a corner and approached a small park nestled between two buildings. Gilmore led him under an archway towards a bench along one wall, where thin tendrils of ivy tangled their way up the bricks. Tary went to sit down, but Gilmore knelt down by the ivy and ran a finger along the seam where the wall met the earth. His finger came up black with soot.

He settled onto the bench beside Tary and examined his hand, contemplating the dark, dusty streak.

“They couldn’t hire someone to clean the last of that up?” suggested Tary.

“I don’t think they wanted to,” replied Gilmore, holding out his hand to look at the soot from a different angle. He sighed, snapped the fingers of his other hand, and the streak vanished. “It’s easy to pretend terrible things never happened. But it doesn’t work out in the long run. Tea?”

“What kind?”

“Typically, people accept gift horses before they start looking them in the mouth,” Gilmore said with a smile. “But that said... anything you like.” He drew two elegantly carved clay cups from thin air and passed one to Taryon. “I’m quite partial to a nice orange blend, but conjuration is a versatile beast.”

It was a lovely cup. Tary examined it carefully, tapped the shiny glaze with a fingernail. “Orange sounds lovely.”

Gilmore spun a chunky golden ring set with a jewel around so the setting faced his palm, and Tary watched as a faint blue glow began to trace a rune across the man’s forehead before he held up a hand to stop him. “No. My treat.”

The glow faded, and Gilmore raised his eyebrows with a surprised smile. “Who am I to deny a drink from a beautiful young man?” He held out his cup.

Tary reached into his satchel and pulled out a small canteen engraved with shining silver arcane text. He drew a finger along one line of writing, and it lit up with a soft light: Tary unscrewed the cap, and a wisp of steam rose up, filling the air with a sweet citrus scent. He poured Gilmore’s first, then his own, recapping the canteen with a hand that was only shaking a little.

“Clever work,” said Gilmore, taking a sip. “And excellent tea.” He paused for a moment and looked at Taryon curiously. “You’re nervous.”

Tary managed an offended laugh. “You must be mistaken.”

“I am very rarely mistaken about people,” replied Gilmore. “What’s bothering you? Do you disapprove of my taste in beverages?” His smile was almost playful.

Taryon took a sip of his tea and looked away.

“I don’t think I’m going to apologize for calling you beautiful. I’m sure I’m not the first person to do it,” Gilmore said kindly. “It’s quite true.”

“I am quite dashing,” said Tary.

“See? You know it too. Not very many people think they’re beautiful. It’s a damn shame.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tary watched Gilmore take another sip of tea and look out over the park in front of them. “So your problem isn’t that you disagree, then.”

Tary looked down at the shimmering surface of his drink, the reflection fractured by lines of tiny waves.

“I wonder,” mused Gilmore, “if you’d be quite so uncomfortable if I was your friend Vex’ahlia. Or Keyleth. Or little Pike Trickfoot. Sherri was clearly a bit taken with you, and yet you seemed quite at ease around her. We’re men of science, Mister Darrington. We are obliged to ask questions.”

Tary sighed, sending a fresh wave of ripples over the liquid in his cup. “Is it really that obvious?”

Gilmore reached over and straightened out the collar of Tary’s silk shirt. “Here’s a piece of advice. Straight men do not own bejeweled headpieces, they do not wear clothes worth more than a house, and they absolutely do not smell like roses.”

“I like that perfume,” Tary objected.

“As you should,” replied Gilmore. “It’s quite lovely. What makes you think I was insulting it?”

Tary chewed absent-mindedly on his lip, mulling over a response. “If you’d spent time where I come from,” he said finally, “you wouldn’t be asking that question.”

Gilmore smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “We all have our traumas.” He raised a bejeweled hand to brush a loose piece of hair back behind Taryon’s ear, and his sleeve rode up to reveal a tangled web of burn scars. “It’s a question that comes to each of us at some point-- can we grow beyond them? We’re allowed to, you know. You don’t owe your father anything.” His fingers lingered for a moment at Tary’s jawline before he lowered them back to his cup and took another sip. “Mm. This really is delicious. I find conjured drink tends to taste a little flat, but this is quite the opposite.”

“It’s not conjured,” said Tary, trying to ignore the way his cheeks were starting to burn. “Producing sustenance from nothing, well, I’ve found that’s best left to cleric-y types, and conjuration was never a specialty of mine anyways. The bottle needs to be refilled every now and then-- just clear water, and the rest is simple transmutation.”

Gilmore blinked, impressed. “How functionalist of you. I hope you won’t take offense when I say I wouldn’t have expected such a deceptively simple solution from such a complicated man.”

“It’s not a typical technique of mine,” Tary admitted. “It was Percival’s idea, actually. We were discussing wine, flavour and such, debating aeration techniques, and I mentioned that very point-- the complications of conjuring food and drink. He was the one who asked whether it would be possible to simply remove the conjuration from the equation entirely. I scoffed, but he was quite right.”

“He tends to be,” agreed Gilmore. “That man’s particular brand of magic is not one I pretend to understand, but his intelligence is difficult to argue with. Bit of a tortured soul.”

Tary rubbed his forehead. “Percival is tortured and broken and utterly remarkable. He’s quite interesting.”

“That’s certainly one way to describe him,” said Gilmore with a knowing smirk. “Interesting? From you? That’s quite a compliment, Mister Darrington.”

“He’s an interesting man,” shrugged Taryon, lifting his cup and downing the last dregs of his tea to try and hide his stubbornly intensifying blush. “I am many things, Mister Gilmore, and I may have been known to exaggerate truths on occasion, but I am hardly a liar. Credit where credit is due.”

Gilmore raised a finger, still smiling. “That’s certainly one explanation. But I have another one to propose.”

Tary pointedly looked away, aware that he was the colour of a tomato by this point.

Gilmore laughed. “Of all people to judge you for your affections! I suppose we share a bit of a similar type, then. My condolences.”

“A similar type?” inquired Tary.

“Vex’ahlia accused me of wanting to fuck her brother once,” Gilmore said, almost melancholically.

“You are inviting me to ask-- did you?”

Gilmore brought a hand to his chest in an expression of mock hurt. “I will tell you exactly what I told her, and that’s this: I have no interest whatsoever in fucking Vax’ildan. I would very much like to take him out to an expensive dinner where we sip wine I cannot afford and carry on terribly sentimental conversation, followed by some form of decadent chocolate dessert that will shorten our already precarious lifespans by several months. After that, I’d like to walk down the twilight streets of this beautiful city with him, fingers entwined, until we make our way back to the doors of my shop, where I would like to kiss him gently as faintly glowing arcane lights swirl around us, following which I would like to lead him back to my room, lay him down on a bed covered in rose petals, and make sweet, passionate love to him.”

Tary blinked hard and looked at Gilmore with an expression that was equal parts shock and intrigue.

Gilmore gestured aimlessly towards nothing in particular. “Vex’ahlia told me that that was perfectly admirable, and that if I ever did anything to hurt him, I would not live to do it again. So I told her that if I ever did anything of the sort, I’d slit my own throat before she had a chance to.” He sipped his tea. “Then she bought three firebolt arrows and departed my shop. I quite like that woman. She knows how to make a deal.”

Tary blinked again.

“What, you don’t like the rose petal idea?” A smile played at the corner of Gilmore’s lips. “Or maybe you like it a little too much?”

“Hardly,” scoffed Taryon, or he tried to scoff, but it really came out as more of a gentle huff.

Gilmore chuckled, amused by his awkwardness. “Don’t worry. You get at least a year of being horrendously awkward around the idea of being with a man. That’s free. I was-- Gods, you should have seen me at thirteen. All this--” and here he gestured to himself-- “it didn’t come easy. It never does.”

“Well, if it doesn’t, you certainly fake it well.” The slightest tang of bitter envy tinged Tary’s words.

Gilmore took a last sip of his tea and tossed the cup into the air, where it vanished in a puff of violet smoke. “It takes practice. Some people have it easier than others-- because of who they are, or where they came from. Look at your twins: raised in Syngorn, among the elves. There is an elven deity by the name of Corellon who blesses their chosen with the gift of transcending gender entirely. Identity and love beyond binaries is enshrined in their culture.” He lifted a hand and swirled a wisp of arcane energy around his fingers before releasing it to scatter through the air. “There’s plenty of stories out there. None of them are simple. Children who were lucky. Adolescents who were not. People who fought battles with their own hearts and minds, fought to change themselves, or fought to change the world.”

Tary swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “Wouldn’t it be nice if they won?”

“One day they will. We will.” Gilmore spoke with a quiet, authoritative confidence, and Taryon found himself fiercely tempted to believe him. “But for now, this is the world we have. Shame is a tricky thing, Mister Darrington. It is something many of us never leave behind.”

“Well, you seem to have done quite a job of it.”

Gilmore leaned back with an easy smile, taking in Tary with twinkling eyes. “You’re not listening to me.” His tone was kind, patient, like he was speaking to a child-- but somehow comforting rather than patronizing. He looked out over the park. “I’m not usually the type to sleep around, but one way or the other, a few weeks ago, I crossed paths with a remarkably handsome man-- an arcanist of the bardic persuasion. He complimented my attire, I bought him a drink. Things went on as they tend to, and a few hours later he was on his knees and ever-so-quietly there was a voice in the back of my head saying no.” Gilmore’s expression was almost wistful. “It wasn’t my voice. Certainly not mine. In fact, it sounded an awful lot like my mother’s.” He looked back to Tary. “And do you know what I did, Mister Darrington?”

Tary said nothing.

“I said _yes_ ,” Gilmore said softly, “and I said it louder.”

A gust of wind blew gently through the park, scattering some dry leaves from their places on the ground.

“Your mother?” asked Taryon finally.

“Not as bad as your father. My parents... we had a complicated relationship. They blamed themselves.”

“That’s why you left home, then.”

“One thing among many. I told you-- small-town life was never my sort of thing. Shandal was very plain and very hot and very dusty, none of which were things ranking particularly high on my list. Emon’s much more me.” He waved a hand about nonchalantly. “All of which goes to show-- sometimes the things we are raised on aren’t the things that are right for us. We get to decide that. It’s part of the joy of being your own person.”

“I’m not entirely sure I know who that person is,” confessed Tary. “I have had plenty of examples for who I’m supposed to be, from plenty of people, and yet...”

Gilmore laughed. “You aren’t alone in that. We’re all just flailing around, trying to figure out who and what we’re going to make ourselves into. People will try and give you rules, ideals, role models, templates, paths to follow, and it’s all a scam.” He waved a hand about to punctuate the sentence. “Personally, I’ve found that there is a great deal of fulfillment to be found in simply doing what makes you happy, and seeing where you end up. But I’m no philosopher.”

“It seems as though that’s what it all comes down to,” Tary said. “What makes you happy.”

“Like I said, I’m no philosopher,” replied Gilmore. “But I have spent my fair share of years trying to find my place, and despite life’s curveballs, somehow I go to bed content most nights. So whatever that’s worth to you, that’s the weight of my advice, I suppose.”

“ _Content_ is a funny word,” Taryon remarked. “I’ve always found it a bit bland. Like a watered-down sort of joy.”

Gilmore shrugged. “People will never be perfect. Life will never be perfect. But it can be very, very good, and this may come as a shock to you, Mister Darrington-- but sometimes that’s better.”

“To go to bed content more nights than not,” mused Tary. “That is something I think I’d like to do, someday.”

“Someday you will,” Gilmore said kindly. “And whoever does it with you will be a very lucky man.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did I write this in several fevered post-midnight typing sessions during exam season? I sure did! Did I cry while writing this? Yeah, maybe, a little! Is fanfiction a healthy way to work through your own internalized crap? Sure, why not! Live your best life!
> 
> Today's thing rec is _How To Survive A Plague_ by David France. The history they didn't teach you in school, from someone who lived it. If I could pick one book to recommend to everyone I meet, it would be this one.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and kudos (especially comments!) make my day if you're able to leave them-- but if not, no worries :) Don't forget to love each other, and I wish you all a wonderful day/night/week/life. You deserve it.


End file.
